


Svengali

by Pixxit



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixxit/pseuds/Pixxit
Summary: Love takes many, many forms. Some of them, however, are nothing more than a sickness.





	Svengali

 

 

 

In a man's life, there are three defining moments he will experience that will serve to shape the sort of person he will one day become. One: he will realize that his Mother - regardless of his love for her and of her role in his life - will not wait for him to grow up merely so that he might marry her, himself. Two: his first passion. That is to say, that moment when he realizes that there is something he wishes to do with his life and that the dream that makes him hopeful may actually be within his grasp. Finally, there is that third moment; the first time he falls in love.  
  
Though I was sick at heart when I knew that my Mother would not be my lifetime companion and though my dream - passionate as it remains - has not come to pass in quite the grandiose manner that I anticipated that it might, neither of those realizations were quite so sobering or quite so disillusioning as the certainty that the love of my heart would likely never return my feelings. Truly, though, this was merely the tip of the iceberg as disillusionment was the least of a man's worries when he allowed himself to become so completely enraptured with a  _child._  
  
He was eleven when he came into my life. A precocious, confident, spoiled child, Atobe Keigo harbored no illusions about himself or his family connections. His future was secure and he was very, very well loved. 'Only the best' was his father's insistence where Keigo's upbringing was concerned and when it was determined that tennis was to be his pastime, it was only the very best instructor that would do. Truthfully, there were other, possibly more skillful, instructors who might have served his purpose, but there was no one - and still, there is no one - who traveled in better circles or had as suitable a background as myself.   
  
I don't mind admitting to a bit of apprehension when Atobe initially contacted me with regards to his son. The very rich tend toward arrogance and implacability - I come from money, myself - and the hassle of bearing the brunt of such undesirable character traits is rarely worth the compensation offered. Particularly when one has no real need for any such compensation. Still and all, I agreed to meet with Atobe and his young prodigy the following day for lunch, telling myself that I really had nothing better to do and that it couldn't hurt to be seen chatting with Atobe in one of the cities' more visible spots.  
  
Atobe was easily enough forgotten, however, the moment I caught the very first glimpse of the boy. And I was undecided no more.   
  
We spoke of current affairs, of people and places and social gatherings that we had in common and it was with wide, neutral eyes that Keigo watched us. He sat - still and quiet - listening to our conversation while he picked over the food his father had ordered. His table manners were impeccable; his comprehension of our interaction was clear, even to me. At the end of the interview, however, it was not to me that Atobe directed his question.  
  
"Keigo," he began, setting his napkin aside turning his full attention to his son for what was, perhaps, the very first time in the entirety of our meal.   
  
The boy followed suit, laying his chopsticks aside and folding his hands in his lap. His small face was serene, placid. He astounded me.   
  
"Yes, Father."  
  
"What are your thoughts, then? Would you like Sakaki-san to take over your lessons?"  
  
He regarded me for a long moment, as though considering all that I might teach him or perhaps he'd only been attempting to ascertain what sort of person I truly was. It hardly mattered; I was completely taken by him. By his long eyelashes and the tiny beauty mark beneath his right eye and the way he sat - so straight and refined.   
  
It amused me to realize that the decision had never been  _mine_. I like to think that it was fate or that Atobe Keigo recognized good fortune when met with it, but honestly, it was no luck of mine that made that beautiful boy nod his head in acceptance. He'd chosen me - whether by his own design or because he felt his father expected it of him - and I could hardly reject him.   
  
It was likely that he, like myself, had no way of anticipating precisely what our relationship would grow to become after that first day. While I cannot speak for Keigo, I can say, unequivocally, that I have never regretted a single moment I've spent with him. Teaching him, guiding him, advising him. In so far as I considered him - from the very beginning - a worthwhile investment, you might imagine my surprise when I began to realize precisely how monumental a role he'd managed to play in my life.  
  
Keigo was a law unto himself and, somehow, I'd allowed him to become integral to my emotional well-being. Again, however, I could not blame him for my own disillusionment or for the mess he made of my heart. One should expect as much when one offers his heart to a child.  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
"Kantoku. You didn't watch me today."  
  
It is with a calm and easy glance that I sidestep his petulance. Already his mouth is turned down in what promises to be one of his more endearing pouts, but I pretend not to see: to give credence to Keigo's pouting is to lose the argument altogether.   
  
"Don't be ridiculous," I tell him, pretending to be as absorbed in the notes I'd taken at practice as I had been when I'd written them. "I was as aware of you as I always am, Keigo."  
  
He makes some small sound of disgust and throws himself into the leather armchair that sits catty-corner in my office and it is with no small amount of self-control that I pretend not to notice the way his bare legs stick to the surface of the chair. I know that when he leaves, I'll be on my knees before the chair, inspecting the chair for any trace of perspiration. I might be tempted to press my face against the cushion, but I doubted that my dignity would allow for it. Better still to sit and contemplate the doing of it than to actually find myself in so pathetic a position.   
  
"Like hell you were," he says, crossing his arms over his chest and spearing me with that look that works so well on his teammates and not at all on his father. "I can't imagine when you had time to write down anything at all considering how long you spent eyeing Oshitari."  
  
I laugh, careful to keep my eyes on the paper before me lest I risk noticing the way his shorts gap to bare his inner thighs. "My intent is to compare your peers' talent to your own. I am certain that you are aware of that."  
  
He only frowns, jealous and put out and hating me for allowing some other boy to steal his spotlight. "It didn't look that way to me," he grouses.   
  
"Be that as it may, we can now begin to piece together our strategy regarding this year's National tournament."  
  
He is silent and does not respond. I continue.   
  
"You will lead the team to Nationals, Keigo. It's all up to you."  
  
"And Yuushi?" he retorts and finally, finally, I favor him with a smile.   
  
"Not Yuushi. Only you."  
  
His expression tells me that he is mollified, somewhat. I know, however, that no victory will ever be enough for Keigo. There will always be yet another goal just beyond each one that he meets.  
  
"Tomorrow," I tell him. "We'll discuss it tomorrow."  
  
"Your house?" he asks, his tone light and unconcerned. I know that there is only one answer he will accept.   
  
"Of course. Where else?"  
  
He smiles then, finger combing his hair and leaning back into the oversized chair. I hazard a glance, unable to prevent myself from sneaking a small peek, and am able to ascertain that his underwear is blue today.  
  
"Good," he says. "Will you brew the apricot tea like you did last weekend?"  
  
I nod and wish that he would go. That he would stay. That he were not off-limits and would always be so. "As you wish."  
  
"Tarou," he says, and I glance up, almost startled to hear my name on his lips. "Was I really the best today?"  
  
My throat is tight when I answer and I can only give him what he seeks. "Beyond compare."  
  
I am forgiven.  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
He uses my home as if it is his own. Upon further reflection I suppose that it is, in some way. Over the years, his parents have relied on me during those times when it would have been unacceptable to leave Keigo alone for extended periods of time. There was his education to think of and I believe that I placed as much importance on such things as his father did. Having been given the responsibility for at least one half of Keigo's preparation for high school, I took my role seriously. Atobe would have expected no less from me. I would have expected no less from myself.   
  
It's not as though I have any sort of entanglements that might interfere. I am not married - indeed I have no intention of ever being so - my job is closely related to the time that I am already investing in Keigo. Atobe is comfortable in the knowledge that he has managed to secure an exceptional advisor, instructor and caregiver in me and I cannot begin to complain.  
  
"Sensei," he says, dropping his books on my table as though he has any intention at all of cracking even one while he suns himself on my patio. "I saw him today."  
  
He's breathless and trying to pretend that it has something to do with the trip over when we both know that his driver is - even now - parked in my driveway.   
  
"Him?" I ask. Keigo's interest in his classmates is fleeting and I have become accustomed to his ease in obtaining and discarding friends. It is no matter; I am the one he relies on. I am the one to whom his loyalty belongs.   
  
"Tezuka Kunimitsu," he says and I look closer - am I imagining the excitement in his eyes? "In the market. He walked right past me."  
  
"Oh? Did you speak to him?"  
  
He sits down then, feigning interest in the design on my tabletop when I know he's merely stalling for time.   
  
"He's the one, you know. If Hyoutei goes all the way, Tezuka Kunimitsu will be your greatest challenge, yet."  
  
He shrugs. "Rikkai's Sanada…"  
  
"Is formidable, I agree. But he is not Tezuka Kunimitsu, Keigo. If you intend to worry over any member of Rikkai Dai, let it be Yukimura."  
  
He frowns, as though I am telling him nothing that he doesn't already know. "You know quite a bit about the obstacles in my path, Sensei."  
  
I sit down across from him and fill his teacup silently. He doesn't acknowledge my attentiveness and the fact that I have served  _him_ first. He doesn't wait for me to fill my own cup before he lifts his own to his lips.   
  
"Your success is my priority, Keigo. I would be doing both you and your Father a disservice if that were not the case."  
  
He snickers to himself, secure and beyond his years, and I stir artificial sweetener into my cup. Around and around, and he watches me closely. He waits until I have finished and am preparing to take the first sip before saying, "The things you do for me have nothing to do with my Father."  
  
I give nothing away; I don't look at him. Gone is the ingénue - he is no longer a precocious eleven-year-old - and in his stead is an intelligent, calculating, self-satisfied powerhouse of a boy. I can only imagine what he will be like when he takes his place in society and I cannot ignore the subtle ache that is mine when I realize that I may no longer be a part of his life when that day comes.  
  
"That's neither here nor there," I tell him, meeting his eyes over the rim of my teacup. As though I would allow a mere boy to shake my control.  _Ridiculous_.   
  
"Tezuka," he says again, testing the name on his lips. His faint smile is indication enough that he likes the sound of it - the feel of it. "I'm going to face him over the net, Sensei. I'm going to  _own_ him, you'll see."  
  
I don't doubt him for even a moment. Any more than I tell myself that his newfound interest in Tezuka Kunimitsu has solely to do with tennis.   
  
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
Sometimes I see him every day. Sometimes days will pass before we exchange anything more than a few words at practice. It does not trouble me, though I find myself increasingly pondering Keigo's activities and whether or not he is hiding something monumental from me.   
  
I heard him, recently, deflecting thinly-veiled insults and engaging in typical, schoolyard banter with Shishido Ryou and though I pretended to have no interest in their conversation, I listened in all the same. Oshitari Yuushi seems to have recently discovered girls; rather, he seems to have discovered sex and it has - finally - become a topic fit for locker-room consumption. No longer is it considered taboo to express an interest in the female form and those more obvious, coveted feminine charms and Yuushi expresses his interest frequently and in great, Technicolor detail. Gakuto is no better - or rather I shall say that he is no worse - and it is easy enough to see that Shishido's belligerent condescension toward his teammates is nothing more than sheer, terrified discomfort. He does not yet realize what he is, though I imagine that he is perched quite precariously on that precipice which overlooks the more startling landscapes of self-discovery. Reality is stark; these boys don't yet know what reality looks like.  
  
Though even as such thoughts occur to me, I suspect that I am being unfair. Generalizations do not apply to Atobe Keigo. Where Shishido suspects and rejects, Keigo  _rejoices_.   
  
"She's going to confess, Keigo," Yuushi tells him, smug and amused with his partner just at his back. "You'd better have an answer ready."  
  
Keigo merely smiles, glancing once at Shishido as he scrapes his hair away from his face to band tightly at the back of his skull. "I don't have to answer at all," he responds, buttoning up his shirt with quick, efficient fingers and pretending not to notice Shishido's hot, defiant regard. "I've readied the field someplace else."  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
  
It is not until Regionals have come and gone that he speaks of Tezuka again. I cannot ignore the realization that his defeat of Tezuka seems not to have offered him the level of satisfaction that I'd imagined it would. If anything, he seems less pleased with himself than he should be, though he's been reluctant to speak of it. His mood has been an odd one as of late and it is to that I attribute his seeming eagerness to make time with me instead of the boys he calls his friends.   
  
Stretched out on the chaise beside me, I don't, for a moment, imagine that he has oiled up his body and arranged those long limbs in so delectable a pose for any reason other than to guarantee my complete, undivided attention. That he needn't have bothered is nothing I feel I should point out; his ego has already grown to epic proportions.   
  
We are poolside, I am enjoying a Mimosa. Keigo is uncharacteristically silent. It is unlike him to close himself up inside his own mind the way he has done today. As thoughtful as he is, he does enjoy the sound of his own voice. When he picks up a bottle of water to roll along the side of his neck, I know that this silence is no longer safe. My mind does tend to wander.   
  
"Is something wrong, Keigo?"  
  
He doesn't answer right away, sighing heavily and half-turning to face me. There are marks on the back of his arm, impressions of plastic lines from the chair. "Do you think I cheated, Sensei?"  
  
I frown. Sensei. This is no conversation meant to tease or divert - I know that he is truly struggling with something. "What are you talking about?"  
  
He shrugs, smoothes the palm of his hand over bare, slippery skin to adjust the drawstring of his too-snug board shorts. I take another drink. And then another.   
  
"Tezuka," he says, voice sounding odd to me. "I…I hurt him. Knowingly."  
  
"Nonsense," I tell him. "You did what any winner must, Keigo. You sought your opponent's weakness and you capitalized on it to the very best of your ability."  
  
He begins to speak, to interrupt, and I hold up a hand in surcease. "And you did it without having to lower yourself in order to secure the win. He was not fit to match you, Keigo. Not then."  
  
He sits up, scowling and shimmering and ruffled in the breeze. Beautiful, beautiful child.   
  
"Later, then? Are you saying that I could only beat him because he was already injured?"  
  
"Don't make me your scapegoat, little boy. Perhaps you were only able to beat him because it was you who caused the injury. Is that not a victory in its own right?"  
  
He frowns, picking at the label on the bottle he holds and I know that he is truly conflicted. I wonder if this has more to do with hormonal interest than with any real altruism. The thought summarily amuses and infuriates me.   
  
"Keigo," I say, and it is taxing indeed to maintain this calm. "You shook his hand after your match. He reached for you. You did what you had to do."  
  
He turns his head aside, refusing to meet my gaze. "What if he hates me?"  
  
We are silent for a moment and I find that no immediate response is forthcoming. I cannot offer him comfort in this. Not when I want to press him back onto the chaise and taste the sweat on his skin. Eventually, I reach for him and he seems to welcome my fingertips at his knee.   
  
"No one could hate you," I assure him. I mean it. "Don't make the mistake of putting Tezuka Kunimitsu on a pedestal, Keigo. While his methods might differ, his intentions are no different - no better \- than yours. He's in it to win. Just like you."  
  
Unconvinced, he continues to look away even as he pushes his knee toward the palm of my hand. "I doubt he would have pushed the way I did. He wouldn't have tried to break me that way."  
  
I smile - so adoring, as always, of his misplaced naivety - and sweep the edge of my thumb over his soft, pale thigh. "You're right, he wouldn't."  
  
He looks up, surprised, and I offer him my glass. He drinks without touching it and licks his lips, after.   
  
"He'd have that freshman do it for him," I add.   
  
Eyes narrowing, he gives me a look that's a bit more reminiscent of the Keigo I know so well and I am careful to show no outward reaction when he props one foot on the edge of my chair.  _Touch me, Sensei_ , is what I hear when he does not speak.   
  
"I need to see him," he says, voice low and steely and he cannot know how incredibly like his father he is in that moment. I'm almost certain that I shouldn't feel as proud as I do.  
  
I shrug, have another sip of my drink and do not take my hand away. He tilts his head, watches me curiously.   
  
"Is there something stopping you?" I ask, and he smiles - just that faint quirk of his lips. I know that his indecision is rapidly dissipating.   
  
"I'll go to him. Before he leaves."  
  
Regarding him casually, I bite my lip when he curves his spine. "And what will you say, I wonder?"  
  
He leans over, plucks the glass from my fingertips and drains it in three long swallows. The ice cubes clink when he lowers it again and his upper lip is shiny. Something inside me - something far more dangerous than he will ever be able to comprehend - strains at the leash and I take my hand away. His expression registers no surprise.   
  
"That I'm sorry. And that I would have beaten him, injured or not."  
  
He cocks his head, offers the glass to me and I fall in love with him again, Machiavellian Prince that he is.   
  
"Sensei."  
  
I take the glass, touch his fingertips and store the sensation away for later reflection.   
  
"Something's happening to me. Something big."  
  
I stand, offer my hand to him and feel entirely vindicated when he takes it without hesitation. I pull him to his feet and curl my fingers around his hand. "It will do no good to speak of it now," I advise him. "Whatever it is, it will keep."  
  
He nods, lets his fingertips graze the heel of my palm. "For now."  
  
I offer him the shower and he accepts. I know that I should make use of his absence and ease the tension that has become unbearable - it certainly won't take long. In the end, though, I sit just outside the bathroom and listen in while he bathes. By the time he leaves, the ache will be nearly painful and still I will resist this urge. The denial is far more delicious than any momentary weakness.   
  
This is only the beginning.  
  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
The boy mopes. Oh,  _how_ he mopes. With his darling Tezuka in Kyushu and Senbatsu lurking just on the horizon, he is as distracted as I've ever seen him. While he has at least spared me the discomfort of listening to him moon over Tezuka in the time that they have been apart, he cannot hide his anticipation for that time when they will meet over the net once again.   
  
I am still not privy to the details of their solitary meeting just before Tezuka's departure - I am honest enough to admit that I do not  _want_ to know those details - but Keigo's actions soon after lead me to believe that an understanding of some sort was reached. That is to say, Keigo could barely keep the smile from his face when he spoke of Tezuka, thereafter.   
  
It is during this interlude, for indeed it is certainly  _that_ , that he begins to test the very carefully constructed boundaries I've so painstakingly placed around him. Always a confident, assured boy, he is now clearly coming into his own and with this new, potent self-awareness, he is slowly, surely, driving me out of what is left of my mind.   
  
His every sentiment is punctuated with the touch of his hand or the tilt of his head or the beautiful, graceful sway of his body. He stands tall and true and meets my eyes evenly, always. I know that - soon - he will meet and then surpass me in height. I ignore the disappointment that this knowledge affords and it is during this time \- this brief, idyllic period, like the calm before a very powerful storm - that he begins to truly know himself.   
  
As unaware as I am certain that he is, he tests me, uses me, displays for me the charm that he will hone for Tezuka. I know that I am not strong enough to turn him away.  
  
Two days before we are due to depart for Senbatsu, he comes to me in my office. There is nothing of the apprehension that I would expect from any of the other boys and, stupidly, it makes me proud of him.   
  
"Tarou," he says, informal as always when we are alone. I wonder if he ever questions my seeming acceptance of his lack of respect, but I do not reflect overlong upon it, as he is already closing - locking - the door and crossing the room toward me. "I have to tell you something."  
  
I lay my pen aside, sit back in my chair when he places both hands on the desk and leans in conspiratorially. "Now? It is nearly dinnertime, Keigo. Your mother will be calling me."  
  
Waving my words away, as if I'd never spoken, he shakes his head. "This can't wait. And they're out of town, besides."  
  
Steepling my fingers beneath my chin, I sit back and wait. He doesn't keep me in suspense.   
  
"He's coming home. He'll be here, for Senbatsu."  
  
He can barely contain his excitement and I do not bother to hide my lack of surprise. Of course he's coming home - he has a  _job_ to do.   
  
"How do you know this?" I ask - as if I cannot  _guess_.  
  
Keigo smiles, his eyes are bright. "He's written to me, Tarou. I don't even think he's told his fukubuchou, but he's told me."  
  
He pushes away from the desk then, to pace restlessly before the desk. Distracted though he is, I know that he is expecting some manner of response from me and I can only attempt to offer the proper sentiment.   
  
"Things are about to change," he says. "I know it. I can  _feel_ it."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Nodding, he continues. His trousers are almost sinfully snug and he smells of lavender and verbena. My feet are restless beneath the desk.   
  
"Sanada will think to take his attention straight away, but I won't allow it."  
  
Sanada? I do not reveal my surprise - this is  _quite_ the development. "You will warn him away, then?" The idea amuses me; my spoiled Keigo in all his delusions of grandeur.   
  
"Of course I'll warn him away," he says, as though it should be obvious. "The first to play Tezuka is going to be me. He is mine. His  _game_ is mine."  
  
I laugh then, I cannot help myself, and he shoots me a filthy glare.   
  
"Keigo," I say, cajoling, placating. "Do you honestly mean to stand there \- in all your self-righteous, frustrated, possessive glory - and tell me that you still believe this to be solely about tennis?"  
  
After a moment, through blank, startling confusion, he regards me as though he is seeing me for the first time. "What do you mean?"  
  
I close my playbook; there is no pretending that I will be able to return to work having had this conversation. "What did you say to him before he left, hm, Keigo? Did you speak only of tennis or was there something else you discussed?"  
  
He blinks and I see a bit of that familiar light in his eyes. He is thinking; I have made him stop and think.   
  
"I…apologized to him. For hurting him. I explained my intentions and said that I hoped he understood." He smiled, recalling. "I said that I wanted a fair win. One that I would have to fight hard for."  
  
"And what was his response?"  
  
"He…" and here he falters, and it is endearing. "He blushed. I think I embarrassed him."  
  
"But did he turn you away?" I ask and he senses the importance of my question. He shakes his head, his own cheeks coloring faintly, though I cannot decide if he is bashful or triumphant.   
  
"No," he says, finally, fidgeting gracefully as only  _he_ can. "He let me speak and he spoke to me in return. We had lunch before he boarded his train and I…"  
  
He glances at me nervously, as though unsure whether or not he should tell me everything, but then he continues. "I waved him off. He watched me."  
  
"So you see," I begin, careful not to offend him with misplaced condescension. "It's not all about the game. No matter that the two of you would like to think that it is."  
  
He is quiet then, flushed and bright with nervous energy and I want him in my lap in the very worst way imaginable. "I do not believe…Tezuka does not think that way, Sensei."  
  
I am Sensei again; relegated to a more familiar role while he struggles with his indecision - his boyhood uncertainty.  
  
"I could say that certainly he would  _prefer_ not to think that way, if what I know of him is accurate, but he is not infallible, Keigo. He's a boy, as you are, and is most likely struggling with his own realizations."  
  
His eyes are like glass, when he looks at me, and I know that he is only barely managing to contain his youthful hope. I want to protect it and nurture it even as I'd gladly grind it under my heel if it meant that I would be the one to teach him about love.   
  
"You're not telling me that I shouldn't think that way."  
  
"You expected me to?" I ask. "Your welfare is my only concern, Keigo. It always has been."  
  
He is silent for a moment and it is as though I am watching him age before my eyes. It is painful and I am not prepared for the ache in my heart.   
  
"Teach me," he says, low and urgent. "Show me what to do, Sensei."  
  
I look away; he asks too much.   
  
"Tarou. Please. This is important to me…"  
  
I hear what he does not say. ' _He_ is important to me'.   
  
"I cannot imagine what you expect to learn," I say, annoyed and working hard to conceal it.   
  
He comes toward me then, around my desk to stand before me and I look up and try to pretend that there is anything but  _this_.   
  
But then he is kneeling, both hands on my knees and resting his head on my thigh and - desperately - I cannot help but to touch his hair and rejoice in this moment.   
  
"Help me win," he murmurs, his mouth hot and damp through my trousers \- so innocent and yet not at all. "I want him, Tarou. I don't know why or for what or how or for how long, but I know that I want him."  
  
I touch the back of his neck for what must be the first time in months \- years? - and remind myself that he is mine as much as he is anyone's. I don't quite believe myself and the silent assertion rings false, hollow. Oh, the things I could teach him, if only I dared.   
  
"You shouldn't ask me," I tell him, though I am still touching him.   
  
He turns his head, rubs his cheek against the side of my hand and I know that he is not - in any way - deferring to me. The loss of dignity now is entirely my own and he knows it and is not above manipulating me in the face of it.   
  
"You shouldn't be so understanding."  
  
I close my eyes for only a moment and am nodding even when I know that he is not looking at me. "Very well."  
  
I can feel his smile and I know that he is smirking. Impossible, incorrigible child.   
  
"Tonight. You'll show me tonight?"  
  
Tonight.   
  
In two days time, we will join the other schools of Kantou at Senbatsu. It is then, I know, that everything will change.   
  
Tezuka Kunimitsu is coming home.  
  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
  
Despite today's earlier poolside exchange, dinner is casual, relaxed. I give Keigo a glass of wine and he wastes no time informing me that he knows it isn't my best. Declining to dignify his remark with a response, I pour myself another glass and sit back in my armchair to watch him.   
  
Stretched on the floor before me, lounging on pillows before the fireplace, he crosses his legs and swings one foot idly. His hands are behind his head and he is entirely artless. I know that he is waiting for my instruction - my advances - and so I continue to make him wait. While I know that he is expecting some illicit manner of interaction between us, I have no intention of putting my hands on his body. I will not seduce him.  
  
"You look satisfied," he says and I smile faintly and sip from my wineglass. He feels playful, it's obvious.   
  
"Do I? I'm merely warm and content and enjoying your company."  
  
He grins at me and stills the back-and-forth motion of his foot. "Do you think I'm beautiful, Tarou?"  
  
Beautiful. Not handsome, not attractive.  _Beautiful_.  
  
"You know the answer to that, Keigo. Why don't I ask a question, instead?"  
  
"Go ahead," he says, pulling himself up into a sitting position, leaning back to brace his weight on his hands.   
  
"Are you anticipating that I might seduce you tonight? That we might make love before the fire and talk about your would-be lover?"  
  
He has the decency to blush and I am not unaffected.   
  
"I need your…guidance. If you want to sleep with me, I'm fine with it."  
  
I stare at him just long enough to unnerve him and when he glances away minutely, I recognize the child within him. The irony is not lost on me that he is not yet old enough for the things I want from him and yet is dangerously nearing that stage whereupon I find him too mature for my tastes.   
  
"Sleeping is the very last thing I'm referring to, Keigo. I'm talking about fucking. About two men coming together to touch and kiss and offer pleasure to one another. True, you might gain enviable experience, but you'll have given away your innocence to someone who has long since lost his own."  
  
He blinks up at me, rapt and expectant, and I am overcome with want of him. I am reminded - again - of my own, considerable masochistic tendencies.   
  
"That experience - that discovery - is what you'll want to share with Tezuka. It will mean more than any victory, I promise you."  
  
Brows drawn, he shifts closer to me, sitting just at my feet and it is nothing to lift one hand to touch his hair. To pet him and soothe him.   
  
"How do I get to that point, though?" he asks, resting his forehead against my knee. The thick strap of his tanktop slips and I am wishing for winter, wanting to watch firelight cast shadows along his bare skin. "We're barely acquaintances and I'm sure he still views me in a less than favorable light. And perhaps he doesn't…want a boy - a  _man_. Perhaps he likes girls."  
  
I have my doubts on that particular subject, but I do not dispute him. "Don't you also like girls, Keigo? The two are not mutually exclusive."  
  
He frowns, considering, hoping, and I ruffle the back of his hair with my fingers. "Perhaps he sees in you what you see in him. There's really no need to define it, is there?"  
  
He lifts his head then, fixes me with a wide-eyed expression that I have not been on the receiving end of in quite some time. My mouth is suddenly dry, though I don't quite dare another sip of wine and risk breaking the spell and ruining this moment. In this moment, he is dependent upon me in ways that I have never dared hope.   
  
"I want to kiss you," he says, voice rough. "I don't care about firsts or innocence or whether or not you think it's right. I want to know what it feels like."  
  
When I part my lips to argue, he rises to his knees, plants both hands on my legs. "Desire. Real desire."  
  
I hesitate and his gaze intensifies. I am slipping - losing my advantage.   
  
"You want me, Sensei. I know that you want me."  
  
"So?" I ask, defensive and lacking all eloquence and - sensing my indecision, my weakness - he draws me further in.   
  
"So? Show me what it's like. Kiss me."  
  
'Teach me', is what he means. Teach me to share desire with someone who is not you.  
  
I turn my wrist, cup his jaw, stroke his cheekbone and - in a moment - he climbs over me to settle in my lap. I am unprepared for so perfect a fit and I take a deep breath in an effort to maintain control.   
  
Already his hands are at my neck, loose and unsure and then slipping to grip my shoulders. He licks his lips - he is ready - and, up close, I can see the almost-fear in his eyes.   
  
I stare at his mouth, feel something inside me expand and contract and still I do not touch him. "Do as you wish."  
  
I will not seduce him; he is much too strong to allow me to shape his emotions however I like.   
  
His chest is solid against mine, fingers tight at my shoulders, and when he presses his mouth to mine, he closes his eyes. Tezuka will want this innocence, even if he is incapable of recognizing it for what it is.   
  
"Tarou," he murmurs against my lips, shifting in my lap with his legs on either side of mine. I want to grab his ass, pull him hard against me, but I do not. I  _will_ not.  
  
"Slow down," I tell him, when he begins to squirm in my lap and when I grip his hips, he pushes his tongue into my mouth. He never listens.   
  
I tilt my head, allow him access, and teach him to set a proper pace without ever once touching him inappropriately. He learns quickly and I suspect that this is not his first kiss. It is, however, his first  _real_ kiss; he wrests away the control long before I think to offer it to him.   
  
When he finally pulls back enough to allow the both of us to breathe again, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks at me.   
  
"I think I've got it," he says. He bites his lip and shifts again. He's hard - so am I.   
  
"Lesson's over," I tell him, shoving him gently to put a little space between us. "I think it's time to say goodnight, Keigo."  
  
He shrugs, climbs off of me to stand before me and I look away when he rubs his erection with the flat of his palm. "Goodnight, then. I'm staying here tonight."  
  
I pet his head as I turn away and I know that he has seen my smile. "Stay out of my bedroom," I warn him, only half-joking.   
  
"Lock your door," he returns.   
  
I leave him there in my study and I know, as I close the door, that he will strip off his shorts, sprawl in my armchair and masturbate himself in the very place that I enjoy my evening brandy. If he comes on the carpet, he will not clean it up. Such is the game we play.   
  
It is hours before I finally sleep.  
  
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
Senbatsu is what it always is. A handful of superfluous adults milling about within a group of oversized, rambunctious children whose sole purpose in life is to push, push, push.  
  
The one oversized, rambunctious child that I feel comfortable claiming stands alone - a part of the group but entirely beyond it - arms hooked over the racket behind his neck. He sways, twisting at the waist idly and perusing all that he surveys. His own team is nearby - Shishido and Oshitari are bickering - but he pays no attention to either of them. He has eyes only for Sanada.   
  
I am, suddenly, very apprehensive.   
  
Tezuka's arrival is somewhat anti-climactic for me, though his presence seems to bring joy and shed light throughout the various groups of boys who clamor for his attention, however silently some of them choose to do so.   
  
For the first time, I work side-by-side with him. I listen to his spare, careful speech and notice the determination and unmistakable scrutiny with which he seems to consider every possibility. He meets my eyes once and is the first to look away. I have to wonder what he knows about me - what he suspects about me.   
  
In typical over-the-top fashion, Keigo wastes no time laying claim to Tezuka. The song he sings at Tezuka's celebration is nothing short of ridiculous. Only Tezuka and myself, however, seem to view Keigo's posturing and preening as anything other than positively dazzling. It occurs to me that we are the only two people who know him well enough to avoid allowing him to impress us.   
  
We exchange a glance, just before I retire to my room, and - for only a moment - Tezuka reveals his exaggerated patience for the spectacle Keigo makes of himself. He almost smiles before he turns his head, dismissing me, and the ache in my chest is suffocating.   
  
I pass another sleepless night but, now, there restless teenaged boys pinning me in on all sides. Their nocturnal wanderings and gathering make sleep an impossibility, but I am grateful for the distraction, if nothing else.   
  
The next day - with the celebrating finally done - Tezuka gets serious again. Those boys who seemed so reluctant to follow Seigaku's fukubuchou are not so inhibited where Tezuka is concerned. One demonstration is all it seems to take before they are - all of them, every one - lining up for the instruction and challenge that they've come for.   
  
Keigo is unimpressed; he needs no discipline and seeks something a bit more personal from Tezuka. Restless and anxious, I watch him turn to Sanada. He goads him, extends the challenge -  _Tezuka is mine_ \- and before anyone has the opportunity to rein them in, they are staring one another down over the net.   
  
Sanada is almost unbelievably good. All power and discipline and hard-edged attacks, I find myself worried for the outcome. Keigo is not deterred, however. The more serious Sanada becomes, the flashier and edgier Keigo seems. It is a strange combination and one that works surprisingly well. When I am able to tear my attention away from the picture that the two boys make, I notice Tezuka - lingering just outside of the court. He - like me - cannot look away. He is seeing Keigo's true ability and dedication and it is breathtaking.   
  
As before, I am the first to walk away, but this match has given me something to consider. Keigo may have found himself the perfect combination.   
  
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::  
  
I see them, later. It is full dark and none of the other boys dare to venture outside, but they do. Standing near the vending machine, they dance around one another while keeping perfectly still. I am surprised to realize that, already, they've established roles for one another. Tezuka is almost untouchable and is certainly maintaining his distance. Keigo leans against the machine and attempts to gain a little ground - a little of Tezuka's personal space.   
  
They are talking, but I am too far away to catch even a single word. After a moment, though, they are still again and Keigo is slow and almost careful when he leans in that much closer.   
  
Slow down, Keigo.  _Slow down_.   
  
Whatever he does, whatever he's said, appears to have had the desired effect on Tezuka, who does not move away. Keigo cups his jaw, strokes his cheekbone and I know - when he presses his mouth to Tezuka's - that his eyes are closed.   
  
For a moment, I hold my breath, unable to laugh at my own vicarious, weightless anticipation for the keen sense of loss that is suddenly mine. But then Tezuka hooks one arm behind Keigo's neck and pulls him in to make known his own brand of domination and interest.   
  
I cannot help but notice how perfectly they seem to fit - there is no awkwardness between them - and when Tezuka drops his unopened can of soda to wind both hands into the back of Keigo's hair, I tell myself that I must have taught him something useful. I can't imagine that this would cut so deeply or seem so final if I had not.   
  
Eventually, I have to turn away; their reunion does not belong to me. Having forgotten what I'd left my room in search of, I slip back inside. The halls are unlit and I suppose that most of the boys are finally abed. I wonder if Hanamura threatened them, somehow, but rationalize that Ryuuzaki is a much more likely candidate for such tactics.   
  
I round the corner, determined to sleep tonight and to find peace in the measure of closure that I have just received, and am startled by the slight figure scurrying along the corridor, near the wall. Peering into the darkness, I try to place him - he is not one of the bigger boys.   
  
"You there. What are you doing out of your room at this hour?"  
  
He freezes, still and trembling as I close the distance between us. He is familiar, this boy. A freshman, perhaps.   
  
He looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes, pushing his too-big headband up when he presses back against the wall.   
  
"Sensei…" he begins, voice high and soft and I smile. He knows that he is caught.   
  
"It's late," I admonish, reaching to straighten the shirt that has slipped to bare one round shoulder. Baby soft, this one is. Banji's brat. "Get back to your room."  
  
He nods quickly, swallows hard, sweet little dream that he is. "Yes, desu!"  
  
And then he is gone, and I am alone. After a moment, I bid a silent farewell to Keigo that neither of us will ever truly acknowledge. For all that my presence was once Keigo's single most inducement to greatness, I know that the dance is done.   
  
Tonight, somehow, I will find peace. Tomorrow is, after all, a brand new day.   
  
  



End file.
